R ! chard

if you thought “The Kingdom of Denmarkvs Hamlet“was fun, you’ll love “TheKingdom of Scotland vs the WeirdSisters“, U.S. Supreme Court JusticeRuth Bader Ginsburg presides, withthe assistance of four other eminentAmerican judges, over the case in which the defendants, the witches who encounter Macbeth, are accused of concocting the murder of Duncan, King of Scotland, by that unsuspecting Thane of Glamis, soon to be Thane of Cawdor, not only predicting it, but verily perpetrating it

double, double, toil, indeed, and trouble,topical allusions fly, pithy, witty, pungent, delightful late night comedy fare, but of a more esoteric,effete order

since I’m on the subject of Hamlet, here‘s the most fun production I’ve seen since I can remember, the trial of said Hamlet before the High Court of the Kingdom of Denmark vs Himself, for the murder of Polonius, chief counsellor of the new King, Claudius, after the death of Hamlet, père,brother to Claudius, Greek, nearly, already, tragedy

the participants put on quite a show, however erudite,they all deliver in utter spades

you’ll relish the surprisingly multifarious quotations you might not, you thought, ‘ve got, of Shakespeare, you’ll be amazed to find that you’re not that much out of touch with these not so daunting, after all, considerations

much art, in other words, is only as far away as one’s curiosity, one’s acknowledgement, much of it is already in our system, in our cultural DNA, all that’s needed to take it in is our attention

from the very Semperoper in Dresden,where I’ll ever remember seeing the worst “Barber of Seville” I’ve ever seen,first balcony, left of centre, Figaro came out on a motorcycle, I ask you, it was downhill after that, my mom, beside me, was falling even asleep, we left at intermission, soldiered on to a restaurant overlooking the Elbe, Italian, if I remember, but utterly more enjoyable than the disappointing operatic option, there might even ‘vebeen a moon at our tablesidewindow, picturesquely shimmering on the river

but, hey, we both would‘ve stayed,incontrovertibly, for this performance, Beethoven’s “Missa Solemnis“, a late, and towering, entry, 1823, in his opus – second definition of that word, whichis to say, his entire output, all 135 opuses, first definition there, discrete compositions – plus all his works without opus – first definition again – numbers, WoO

the plural of opus, incidentally,can alsobe, both meanings, opera, just to confusethings, I use eitherinterchangeably, according to my narrative rhythm

missae solemnes, plural of missasolemnis, are a particularly Catholicform of music, going back to the very Middle Ages, at which point religious art was all that really mattered, anything else was entirelyperipheral, of no consequence

but Catholicism, and its Protestantoffshoots, which is to say, their common Christianity, remained culturally entrenched during the process of their slow disintegration

Phaedra, according to Greek myth, fellin love with her stepson, and, of course,ruined, for everyone, everything

she’s been represented in music bycomposers from, at least, Rameau,1733, to, here, now, Benjamin Britten, 1976, by way of even TangerineDream, 1973, however peripherally, and the hits just keep on coming

in literature, the story goes back to Euripides, 480 – 406 BCE, throughJean Racine, 1639 – 1699, poet at the court of Louis XlV, the version that I studied in French Literature,along with, in English, Shakespeare,who was doing courtiers, rather, and royalty there, then, incidentally, instead of the Continent’s iconic Mediterranean figures – it remains my favourite play in my mother tongue, next to, for me, its only other equal,“Cyrano de Bergerac“

up at the crack of about nine this morning, I determined to get the ordeal of trying to print something out of the way, go over to my mom’s, a few blocks down the street, to use her printer, something I figured would probably present obstacles

though we followed the proposedinstructions, nothing would work,print, pressed, delivered nothing

hoops were required, several of which I managed, got closer, and more prepped, but when they essentially seemed to contractmarriage, I withdrew – though I might‘veinadvertently sworn a ring

flummoxed, even irritated, by the manufactured distress, Ideterminedly decided to go back to paper, I am not a robot, I ascertain, as they often electronically instruct, to, I mean really, confirm your identity

back home, I lit a candle for Collin, my friend, who ‘s just had a debilitating stroke, and listened toBach again, an absolute cradle

listen to how falling into the rhythmic pocket, beats landing on anticipated beats in a rocking motion, lets you slip into surrender, and even physical,solace

hear, however, how the lingering notes of the violin transgress bar lines, much like with Beethoven, in order to tell a more personal story

Bach gets to look a lot more likeBeethoven every minute, or the reverse, I’m finding, like grandchildren resembling, atom for atom, their grandparents

a friend, who lives too far from me to visit, but who is too close to my heart for me to do nothing, has just had a stroke, “His body, smile, motor functions are improving.The most affected area is his speech center. He is filling in the gaps, has surrendered to his situation, but is operating at about 25% comprehension and memory. He has to rebuild his language, and is getting his ideas across with a lot of help in translation. He will be doing a lot of speech therapy. His uncanny resilience will serve him well.“, I’ve been advised

should I continue to write to him,I’ve wondered, maybe just a few cheery words a day, does he take the time to read his mail, can he, does someone do it for him, should I call, or when I thought, if not anything else, why not music, something I can easily send, something he can hear, surrender to, rather than pay any more cerebral attention

yesterday, I sent him Bach, Bach’s “Musical Offering“, 1747, Bach isfrom a much more serene periodin music than Beethoven, my recent area of investigation here, Bach wrote a lot of ecclesiastical stuff, cantatas and such, masses, was indeed music director for the Lutheran churches in Leipzig for a time, the combination makes for reflective, often even transcendental music, Beethoven wouldn’t at all, in this case, ‘ve done, with all ofhis Sturm und Drang

I’m lighting a candle a day for myfriend, I’ll also be sending himinternet flowers, till I think of what else I can do but pray, for his speedy recovery

just as I was being called on the carpet for my constant returns to Beethoven, none other than GlennGould should show up, in my cavern of wonders, to absolve me, or at least to stand stolidly by my side

had I written, however, his observations, I’m sure you’d’ve balked, he’s a product, after all, of the priggish pretensions that prevailed in my neck of the woods at the time, Southern Ontario, a product of British Imperialism, of which I am myself, I avow,incontrovertibly subject, but due to the strength of his celebrity, one is likely to listen to Gould more attentively, I’m not sufficiently yet, I suspect, significant, nor influentialhe is, one way or the other, I concur,absolutely right

about his “Tempest“, though, I’ll say, even object, as Stravinsky and John Cage did, according to Gould, about the commanding Beethoven, that Gould is dripping in Romanticsentiment here, his rubato in the first movement tests the limits of our forbearance, and his second movement is so slow as to have one fall off the page

psst: here’s another version of the 17th, to my mind, less self-indulgent, but you be the judge, don’t think about it, just ask yourself which one would you want to hear a next time, that’ll be your, gloriously personal, reply

with the greatest respect for all who read me, and especially for those who are least convinced, the way also, I note, to a conscious, and entirely personal, aesthetic

let me once again insist that my commentaries here are not at allthe last word on any of what I’ve discussed, they’ve been merely my opinion, according to my own particular aesthetic, my comments have been rather to excite curiosityabout, for some, an esoteric topic, to awaken interest in a field, to my mind, strewn with marvels, and never to dictate, art, as I oftenremind, is in the eye of the beholder

I think of myself as company in an art gallery, viewing a succession of works, musical here, expressing notions, either specifically to do with the exhibit, or, personal,but somehow related, then moving on, just enough to whet the appetite, or, of course, not

here’s an instance

I’d been waiting for the sales clerk to box some fresh pasta for me I was buying at an eatery down the street when a line of piped in music from their overhead system swept me off my disconcerted feet, which I recognized to be Mozart, but asI’d never heard him, ever

can you tell me who’s playing that,I asked the cashier, many stores played their own tapes back then,some still indeed even do, 19-eighty, at that time, something

he replied, Mitsuko Uchidawhat she’d done was to not stressthe bar line, the natural beat, to, in fact, eliminate it, so that a flightof notes went on like an unfettered and iridescent miracle, prompted by its own irrepressible momentum,I was flabbergasted

here, in the event, is the next work of musical art in my idiosyncratic gallery, the richibi galleri, I call it, Mitsuko Uchidaherself illuminatinggloriously, as ever, Mozart, his splendid, as she reminds us, PianoConcerto no 9

once I learned to read music, which is to say, to pay attention when I was listening – the line of the melody, itsdevelopment, the counter melody,its development, the recapitulation,of either, or both, the changes in volume, tonality, the changes in pace, rhythm – the grammar of composition began to make itselfevident, felt, like the work of verbs, nouns, adjectives in sentences

the particularities of the composer then, much like the colours on a painter’s palette, made themselves manifest, the trick is there are no words in either of these arts, one must understand them with the senses

two stories

I’d had an aneurysm, my sisterwas there each day to hold my hand, as I lay silently, patiently, recovering, any noise was painful, even excruciating

years later, all I could do, she said, was hold your hand

all you could do, I retorted, utterly confounded, there was everything in your hand, your love, your prayers, your attentionand devotion, all of those things,I said, are what kept me alive

later, I extrapolated thatthat must be how a newborn baby understands, through the senses, like we do music and paintings

another

when many years later I was volunteering at the local palliative care unit, I was asked to sit with a mother whose family would meanwhile take their lunchtogether, the mother, incoherent and distraught, was all ajitterin her bed

I sat by her, put a hand on her arm, gently, and began to chant a mantra I’d recently taken up in meditation, something repetitive and calming

little by little her tremors slowed,stopped, and then she began tosing, to mumble, to murmur, to intone, row, row, row your boat, over and over again, in a corroborating rhythm, acknowledging,mystically, magically, our transcendent connection